My art feels like it's real disobedient. I can fill notebooks with observations and maybe they find their way into the work unconsciously, which is great. I've never been able to directly plug, like to take a little snip that I've picked up on the street and transfer it into a story. I don't know what's wrong, but it never works that way.

The thoughts he put in her head. Someone should’ve arrested him for it.

Literature is less involved in giving you answers and more dedicated to giving you insight.

As expected: she, the daughter of the Fall, recipient of its heaviest radiation, loved atomically.

And that's when I know it's over. As soon as you start thinking about the beginning, it's the end.

Our relationship wasn't the sun, the moon, the stars, but it wasn't bullshit, either.

I can't imagine anybody who ends up being an artist who didn't pass through a time of geekiness.